


karma is actually a very nice lady

by JenTheSweetie



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Facials, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 06:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16592495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenTheSweetie/pseuds/JenTheSweetie
Summary: Now, let's get something straight: Clint Barton is always flirting with him, because Clint Barton is always flirting witheveryone.  "Casual lewdness" is pretty much Barton's baseline state of being.But what's different this time is that they are actually in bed together, and Clint actually has a hard-on, and so does Coulson, if we're keeping score, and this is very much not a lascivious wink from across the table in the commissary.  Coulson has been ignoring Clint's flirting for years, and all at once it hits him that maybe, just maybe, he should have been paying a little more attention.





	karma is actually a very nice lady

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink bingo square "big/little". Thank you Snapjack, my always-inspiration.

Phil Coulson doesn't believe in karma, but every once in a while something happens that makes him wonder: what the _hell_  did I do to deserve this?

The op has been fine, assuming your definition of "fine" is inclusive of Barton getting made within about 45 seconds and the resulting car chase through the streets of Bratislava that makes the latest James Bond film look like a home video of a kid playing with Hot Wheels.  They're alive, anyway, and the package is secure, and they've got seven hours before their extraction and a safehouse on the other side of town that Coulson thinks _probably_ hasn't fallen into the wrong hands in the three and a half years since anyone's used it, so hey, all's well that ends well.

"If you say so," Clint says grumpily as Coulson opens the door to the apartment with a key they dug out of a planter in the front hall.  Clint gets grumpy sometimes after an op, a combination of post-adrenaline fatigue and ennui and what Coulson generally suspects to be hunger, because though Clint Barton has the eyes of a sharpshooter and the nerves of a master assassin, he has the stomach of a sixteen year old boy.  Coulson keeps a few protein bars shoved in among his surveillance equipment and weapons for exactly this reason.  

"Home sweet home," Coulson says, playing with the switch until the overhead light blinks on.  

"More like closet sweet closet," Clint says.  He's not wrong.  The safehouse is among the smallest Coulson's ever seen: there's a hard-backed chair and table in one corner, a single bed crammed in the other, a door that leads to a surprisingly clean bathroom at the near end and not a whole lot else.  

"The Ritz's standards sure have fallen."  Coulson locks the door behind them and rifles through his assortment of A/V cables and ammunition until he finds a peanut butter bar.  "Room service?"

"Thanks," Clint grunts, ripping the wrapping apart with his teeth.  

"Get some sleep," Coulson says when he's finished eating.  "I'll take the chair."

"No way," Clint says.  "You've been up longer."

It's true; Coulson's pushing 48 hours, while Clint caught a nap during the drive from Zagreb, but still.  "I need you sharp for tomorrow."

"And I need _you_  sharp," Clint argues.  He glances at the bed, then back to Coulson.  "We could share it, I guess."

And that's how Phil Coulson winds up wide awake in the world's smallest bed pressed back to back with the world's greatest archer, who also happens to regularly top the annual SHIELD Academy Most Bangable Assets list and who features heavily in the rotation of Coulson's raunchiest and least work-appropriate dreams.  Coulson wonders, distantly, which vengeful god he doesn't believe in he's managed to piss off this time.

Coulson thinks that, possibly, through a careful balance of sublimation and sheer exhaustion, he _might_  be able to fall asleep - but that's before Clint starts... squirming.  There's no other word for it: this is a man who Coulson has seen stay statue-still atop a weathervane, for six hours, in the _rain_ , and right now he's wriggling like a five year old waiting in line for the bathroom.  

"Barton," Coulson says, finally, when the close-up tossing and turning becomes too much.  "What's up."

"Nothing."

"I can take the chair."

"No, it's not - I just - I can't sleep on my right side."

"You're welcome to face me.  I don't mind."

This is a lie: he does mind, very much, but not for valid enough reasons to deny Clint a couple hours of sleep.  "Cool," Clint says, and the bed shifts as he rolls over.

Coulson lays very still.  He can feel Clint's breath tickling the back of his neck, can just barely sense his tac pants brushing Coulson's calf under the covers.  Phil suspects that Clint normally sleeps naked, because while Coulson took off his suit and shirt and laid them neatly over the back of the chair so they'd be wrinkle-free come morning, Clint had simply climbed into bed fully dressed, apparently uninterested in anything one might call a compromise.

"Thanks, sir," Clint says.  His breathing slows imperceptibly, then evens out.  When Coulson is certain that he's very nearly asleep, he relaxes his grip on the edge of the bed.  This is not an issue.  He can sleep like this, his body tucked close to Clint's in a parody of cuddling, with no problem at all.  This is all completely fine.

Clint shifts, and it is suddenly completely not fine at all.  Because unless Clint has left a gun in his front pocket, which Coulson is pretty sure he hasn't because for all his foibles Clint is actually really good about firearm safety, he has an erection.  An erection that is pressing, firmly, right up against Coulson's ass.

Coulson considers his options.  The best, if also the most impossible, is probably to do nothing and pray for sleep, or maybe death.  He could also move around until Clint wakes, at which point Clint will almost certainly realize that he's currently poking his boss with his dick; on the downside, the resulting awkwardness could disrupt, potentially severely, not just this op but their entire professional and personal relationship.  Other assorted parts of Coulson's body unhelpfully advise that there may in fact be additional options, but considering they all fall in various places along the "inappropriate" spectrum, he ignores them.

Another possibility hits him: _snoring_.  He'll start snoring so loudly that Clint will wake up and roll away, but it won't be awkward because he'll think Coulson is asleep.  It's genius; not for nothing was Coulson the youngest-ever Level 7 SHIELD agent.  If this were to make it into his mission report, which it will not, Fury would have been very proud.

Okay.  Coulson takes a shallow breath, prepares himself to fake it til he makes it, and - 

The room falls silent, and behind him, Clint goes perfectly still.  He's not breathing, he's not moving, and he's _definitely_  not sleeping.   All in one motion, he rolls away.

Coulson winces.  "Don't worry about it, agent," he says quietly, because he is a grown up _._   "Happens to everybody.  Go back to sleep."

"Yes, sir," Clint says.

Coulson sighs.  It's fine; it's a little uncomfortable, maybe, and Clint will probably avoid his eyes over breakfast, but really - it's not a thing.  Worse things have happened.  Worse things have happened in the last 24 hours, actually.  It's all fine.  It's - 

"Sir," Clint says.

"Yes?"

"You can face me, if you want."

Coulson blinks into the darkness.  He's pretty sure he hasn't expressed a preference about which side he likes to sleep on.  He opens his mouth, which has apparently teamed up with the other traitors hiding out in his own body, and says, "You prefer to be the little spoon, is that it?"

 

Clint snorts.  "Something like that.  Only if you wanted to be the big spoon, of course."

 _Who did I kill in a past life_ , Coulson thinks numbly, because he is almost entirely certain that Clint Barton is flirting with him.  Now, let's get something straight: Clint Barton is always flirting with him, because Clint Barton is always flirting with _everyone_.  "Casual lewdness" is pretty much Barton's baseline state of being.  

But what's different this time is that they are actually in bed together, and Clint actually has a hard-on, and so does Coulson, if we're keeping score, and this is very much not a lascivious wink from across the table in the commissary.  Coulson has been ignoring Clint's flirting for years, and all at once it hits him that maybe, just maybe, he should have been paying a little more attention.  

"If it'll help you sleep," Coulson says lightly.  He curls in on himself and rolls until he's facing Clint's back.  The collar of his grey t-shirt is a little bit frayed, and Coulson can tell he got a haircut right before the op.  

"Sure will," Clint says, and then, the son of a bitch, he scoots right back and tucks his ass into the curve of Coulson's body.

Coulson goes still.  His cock, which had swelled at the feeling of Clint's but drooped in the bungled aftermath, takes notice.  

"Like I said," Coulson says, "happens to everyone." 

Clint shifts minutely against him.  "Like you said."

A minute ticks by.  Clint's breathing has settled, gone shallow, but he's not sleeping.  He's _waiting_.  

Well, Coulson thinks, he's never been one to back down from a fight and he's never lost a game of chicken in his life and he's not sure if this is a fight or a game or something else entirely, but he'll be damned if he's not going to find out.  He reaches out and, slowly, so slowly that Clint has plenty of time to move away, he slides his fingers under the hem of Clint's shirt.  He cups Clint's side gently, pushes up his shirt and draws circles with his thumb that barely brush the bottom of Clint's ribs.

Clint lets out a long breath.  "S'nice," he says, his voice heavy and warm.  

"Good," Coulson murmurs in his ear.  They're pressed together from ankle to shoulder now, the hard line of Clint's spine against Coulson's chest and his ass flush against Coulson's hips.  Clint's warm, and Coulson lets his hand drift down to Clint's stomach, feels his abs, slides the tip of a finger under the waistband of his tac pants.

Clint arches his back, just a little, but it's enough that Coulson's cock stirs; there's no way Clint can't feel the hard line of it.  Coulson keeps up his feather-light touches, slides his fingers from waistband to navel, further up every time, until he brushes the edge of a peaked nipple.

Clint shivers slightly, and Coulson can't help but smirk.  He circles Barton's pec, gives the nipple a wide berth, and then, just as he tweaks it, he bites gently at the skin where Barton's neck meets his shoulder.

" _Jesus_ ," Clint breathes, his hips jerking forward.  

"Good?" Coulson murmurs directly into his ear.

"Ye-yes," Clint says.  He's a little hoarse; Coulson wonders if he wasn't expecting his little game to go quite so well.

"Anything to help you get to sleep," Coulson murmurs.

Clint laughs shakily.  "I'm lucky to have such a thoughtful handler."

For that, Coulson pinches his nipple again, hard this time, and Clint whimpers and arches his back.  Coulson rocks back against him instinctively, and soon they're grinding against each other needily, Coulson toying with one of Clint's nipples and then the other, his dick trapped in his boxers between his stomach and Clint's ass.  

"Sir," Clint says, his voice strained as Coulson slides his hand down Clint's stomach until his fingers can dip under his waistband again, just to tease.  " _Sir_."

"Don't have to call me that," Coulson says, and he skates his hand down the front of Clint's pants until he can grip his erection through the fabric.

"What should I - _jesus_  - call you, then?"  Clint tips his head back as Coulson strokes him roughly through his pants, and Coulson accepts the invitation to mouth along the side of Clint's neck, sucking a bruise into the skin under his ear.

"Whatever you want," Coulson says.  He one-handedly opens Clint's button and unzips him, and then he slides his fingers under his briefs and through a thicket of wiry hair and brushes the head of Clint's cock.  It's slick with pre-come, and Clint bites off a groan as Coulson thumbs over it, spreading the pre-come around, his touch light and teasing.

"Gonna kill me, sir," Clint huffs, and Coulson chuckles even as his hips rock forward again.  

"Not the idea, agent," he says.  He pushes down first Clint's tac pants, then his briefs, and Clint wriggles around until his cock pops free.  Clint's grinding is almost desperate now, his pants still tight around his knees but his ass bare against Coulson's still-clothed dick.  He fits neatly into the cleft of Clint's ass.  

Coulson slides his hand back up over Clint's abs, circles a nipple as he passes his chest, and strokes up his throat - Clint whimpers a little at that, and Coulson stores the information away for later - and then holds his hand in front of Clint's face.  "Lick," he says firmly, and Clint's mouth opens as if on command, his tongue laving over Coulson's palm, and then, in a move that Coulson knows will haunt his dreams, _sucks one of Coulson's fingers into his mouth_.  His tongue twists around it, and when Coulson pulls away there's a wet _pop_.

"Very thorough," Coulson says, and Clint laughs breathily.  

"Always trying to make you proud, sir," he says as, for the first time, Coulson wraps his hand completely around Clint's cock.

The weight of it is good and thick in his hand, satisfying and almost familiar.  All of Clint is almost familiar, in a way; he's cut the man out of clothes to dig a bullet out of his thigh, cleaned his wounds, seen him in everything from scuba gear to Arctic-ready parkas, watched his muscles flex in the gym and in the field.  He knows exactly how much weight Clint can carry, how long he can hang from his arms without falling, the precise way he balances himself at the edge of a roof or the top of a tree.  His cock in Coulson's hand is new, but it's the last bastion of newness, a final step that Coulson is glad to be trusted with.

He strokes it, varying his speed and pressure until he's able to interpret Clint's breaths enough to know exactly what he wants.  It's not hard: Clint is writhing against him, his hands clutching the sheets, the muscles in his back strained, and Coulson has a feeling he could be giving the worst handjob in the world and Clint wouldn't care.  Not that Coulson would ever give the worst handjob in the world, but still.

Coulson's grinding harder against him now, rutting, almost, and he can feel his cock leaking in his boxers.  His hand and his hips move in time, forward and backwards, Clint's cock fucking up into his hand, and Coulson wishes he had another hand free, that he could play with Barton's nipples or squeeze his perfect ass or tangle a hand in his hair, wishes he could grab him by the jaw and kiss him, but he worries that changing their position will break the spell, somehow - that if they take a moment to breathe, to think, they'll look each other in the eye and one or both of them will reconsider, chicken out, withdraw.  If they stay here, just like this, they can always get up in the morning and call it a helping hand, just two people in tight quarters letting off steam for the night.  Coulson’s always been good at risk management.

"Fuck," Clint breathes, " _Phil_ ," and Coulson can tell he's getting close: his ass clenches, and Coulson ruts against it harder and squeezes the head of Clint's dick on every pass, and when he presses a kiss to the back of Clint's neck Clint throws his head back and comes with a shudder.  His hips jerk forward once, twice, three times, and Coulson strokes him through it, his lips mouthing at every part of Clint he can get to.

"Jesus," Clint says as he comes down.  "That was - _jesus_."

"Mmm," Coulson murmurs.  

Clint arches his back, and Coulson's aching cock slides against his ass.  "What can I do for you?" 

"No need," Coulson says.  "That was for you."

"Like hell," Clint huffs, and then he's sliding down the bed and twisting around, amazingly lithe and graceful for someone whose pants are still tangled around his ankles.  "Can I blow you?"

Coulson shuts his eyes briefly.  "That would work."

"Fuck yeah," Clint says happily, and dear lord, Coulson has imagined many things but Clint Barton being the kind of man who absolutely _loves_  giving head was too much for even his wildest dreams.

And yet here he is.  Clint grins up at him as he leans forward and takes the head of Coulson's cock into his mouth, and Coulson twists his fingers into the sheets and holds on tight.  He's already embarrassingly close and he knows it won't take long, so he tries to stop thinking, enters a sort of blow job-induced meditation, a mindfulness exercise where he focuses on the _now._  The now is pretty great, after all: the mildewed walls of the Bratislava safehouse fade away, and there's nothing but feeling of Clint's lips wrapped around his dick, Clint's hand squeezing his balls, Clint's eyes fluttering closed as he takes Coulson deeper.  

His cock nudges up against the back of Clint's throat.  Clint swallows around it,  and somehow Coulson isn't exactly surprised that he doesn't have a gag reflex but he isn't expecting it, either, and he grunts like he's been punched in the gut as Clint takes him all the way to the root, spit sliding messily down his chin.  His tongue twists and his head bobs, and Coulson barely pulls back in time, his cock sliding out of Clint's mouth with a filthy _slurp,_ and if he wasn't already just about to come he would have anyway at the sight of Clint looking up at him with his mouth open and his eyes teasing, just _waiting_ , and then he shoots all over Clint's face.

As Coulson comes back to himself, Clint slides back up the bed until they're face to face in the narrow bunk.  His tongue slides out of his mouth and catches a drop of come on his upper lip.  "Next time," he says casually, like he's commenting on the weather, "you gotta come in my mouth, all right?"

"All right," Coulson echoes, a little faintly, because _come_  and _mouth_  and _next time_  are all words he didn't think he'd be associating with Clint Barton ever, much less tonight, so go easy on him, okay?

"Sweet," Clint says.  He accepts the handkerchief that Coulson digs out of his pants pocket and wipes his face, and then he settles back down on their shared pillow and looks thoughtful.  

"What," Coulson says.

"Nothin."

"Barton."

"What?"

Coulson raises an eyebrow.  They are both still partly dressed; if they were vertical instead of horizontal, and if there were not still a smidgen of come on Barton's cheekbone, it could be any other op in the field where they bicker at each other in shorthand and always, always make up by the end of the day.  "Your face," Coulson says, finally, because whenever Clint has that look like he wants to say something but doesn't think he should, he _always_  says it eventually, and usually it's better to just get it over with.

"I just," Clint says, and pauses.  "I - would you mind, if I was the little spoon?"

Coulson will not laugh in Clint's face.  Coulson was there when Maria Hill's temporary pink hair dye from a mission ended up not being so temporary; he was there when Natasha Romanov’s first catsuit shrunk after she unexpectedly ended up in a lake and Clint had to pull it off of her in the back seat of a Buick LeSabre; hell, he was there the day Nick Fury tried out a plaid eyepatch, and he had never, _ever_  cracked.  

"Of course," Coulson says.  "I'd like that very much, actually."

"Great," Clint says, and then he leans in and kisses Coulson, quickly, just once, right on the lips, and twists around and tucks himself back into the curve of Coulson's body.

Coulson smiles and scoots closer and twines his arm around Clint's waist.  Karma, he thinks as he finally drifts toward sleep, is actually a very, very nice lady.  


End file.
